liberation
by Sabina Synthetic
Summary: A conceptual piece relating to Kadaj's final feelings toward death as well as the emotional connection he has with the one he calls 'mother'. based on a preending scene of ffac


How?

It was a simple enough question. Was it possible that his own mind had become so twisted by deceit and loathing toward the truth that he could no longer differentiate between cruel reality and his own, vividly colouful version of what was real? If it _felt_ real, who was to say that it was not?

He could taste the salty sea air at the back of his tightening throat and feel the sand crunch beneath his heavy, metal laden feet as he stepped boldly toward her angelic form. It was to him more real than anything in his life so far, yet at the same time almost too exquisite and fragile to exist.

Every second that passed he could feel the moment and the contentment in his heart slowing cracking, delicate as glass and ready to smash into countless pieces at any second. Perhaps the very knowledge that such a moment couldn't possibly last forever was what kept everything so beautiful, although he would never be certain.

After living a life of so much misery, regret and endless disapointments, how could he ever hope to believe in something so wonderful? He didn't want to build up a wall of hopes only to let an unexpected earthquake tear them irrepairably to the ground. It had happened so many times before that he did not know if his being could take any more broken promises, borne of his own foolish belief in all that was pure. Purity was a mere illusion created to lure the soul into false security; he knew that now.

Still, watching the young woman's every motion he couldn't help but notice how her delicate mouth twisted into a mischevious grin, her right eye winking knowingly as his confusion deepened to an immense swamp of puzzlement. She was so untainted unlike anything he had ever been taught to recognise as what was 'real', but there was no denying how close she was to the image of her he had often visualised in the constant dreams that plagued his sleep.

"_Are_ you real?" He called out to her. Nothing else mattered anymore but that woman, and whether she was truly the one he had spent his entire life hoping to please.

Her response was a juvenile giggle that echoed inside his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull and leaving his brain spinning.

She stepped closer to him then and he started, ever so slightly frightened and suddenly aware even after the mere minutes he had spent in that empty land with her that she was unpredictable as the wind. Were she to have disappeared right then it would have come as little of a shock to him.

He smirked as he noticed the clumping brown boots she wore, so out of place next to the rest of the pink material she was clothed in, and so inapropriate on her petite figure. She seemed so frail yet just one glance into her eternally emerald eyes portrayed everything. She was an open book and her contents were so unbelievably disimilar to her cover, but he knew it then.

She _was_ his mother. The determined soul and strength of will she possessed in her eyes told him everything, and at that moment he had to be in her arms; had to feel the love of a mother, something he had never known. He had to find out if it was truly what had been missing from his life for so long and unthinking, his mind numb with apprehension, he ran; charging ever closer to the moment in which he could melt into the loving embrace he knew he deserved.

Looking toward her with attempted subtlety he saw her eyes widen in bewilderment and half-expected her to turn and flee, but there she remained, an almost heavenly glow radiating from her being.

He eventually drew to an immediate halt directly before her, so close that he could feel her breathing synchronising with his own.

Hiding his emotion beneath a mass of silver hair he glanced down into her eyes, awaiting consent which soon came in the form of an almost mocking nod.

It was then that he flung his arms around her, overexcited by the knowledge that were she to love him and were he to recognise that love, the deep wound to his heart would be healed. It was but a fleeting touch but more than enough, for as his gloved hands came into contact with the cotton of her dress she shattered. Not so much literally, but she _was_ gone, the moment broken as he had known from the start it would be, replaced by the feel of a wound he never knew he had, and the image of a certain blonde haired sibling standing before him in an alternate location, expression alive with sympathy.

It was a sympathy he would not accept.

Though he felt the warmth of a sticky crimson liquid drip to his chin, he felt neither sadness nor regret. Though he bore witness to the bloody wound that pierced his skin, slicing an opening in the cave of his chest and leaving his barely beating heart vulnerable, he did not feel shame. As the blood from his now deadening heart splattered the concrete below him and he fell into his murderer's arms, he was not angry. He knew what awaited him, and he knew that he had been saved, and were he not to have been so short-of life at that time he woul'dve looked to his brother and smiled.

Still, he saved that energy. Her voice was echoing his name and he knew she was calling for him, so with his last breath he raised his arm, outstretching his fingers and replying with a word that felt so utterly pure and silky on his tongue.

"Mother."


End file.
